


Trouble with Fluff

by paintedrecs



Series: Fluff 'verse [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek has dubious taste, Excessive Cuddling, Excessive Talking, First Impressions, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Laura Hale/Jordan Parrish, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, POV Stiles, Puppies, Stiles Means Well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7222141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedrecs/pseuds/paintedrecs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are not borrowing a dog to seduce Derek Hale,” Scott said firmly, crushing Stiles's dreams and betraying the bro code in one fell swoop. </p><p>*** </p><p>In which Stiles isn't sure Derek's beloved pet even qualifies as a dog, but he's determined to woo him anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also known as: I utterly fail at short prompt fills. I promised my next one would be significantly fluffier [than the last](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7209251), which made this suggestion seem particularly apt:
> 
> **@yslstiles lots of fluff**
> 
> I was originally planning to fold it into some other relationshippy prompts, but then I got to thinking about how _Stiles_ would feel about being faced with a big ol' pile of fluff. And well. This happened. [Image set for some visuals](http://paintedrecs.tumblr.com/post/146098165060/title-trouble-with-fluff-author-paintedrecs).

“Are you sure that’s a dog?” Stiles asked dubiously, poking at the ball of fur on the examining room table. “It might just be a big clump of dryer lint that shook loose when you were washing the towels earlier. You know how that stuff builds up over time. Fire hazards and all that.”

Scott acted like he hadn’t even heard him, which was rude but not unexpected. He operated under the misguided assumption that ignoring Stiles would make him stop bothering him at work. It was a weird theory to stick to, considering how long they’d known each other, but Scott had a dogged sort of determination (Stiles snickered to himself, filing that one away to use later) that had always put him a few steps behind when it came to learning how to properly deal with Stiles. It was okay, though; Stiles graded on a generous Scott-shaped curve, and was willing, despite these periodic bumps on the road, to continue being his best friend. His brother. His compatriot-in-arms. His built-in, unasked-for puppysitter.

“Seriously, though,” he insisted, sticking his finger back into the fuzzy orangeish blob of fluff that Scott was pretending to examine. He was pretty sure he’d spilled orange soda all over the clean towels the last time he’d graced Scott and the puppies with his presence, which could account for the color. Dryer lint always took on the tint of the load you’d stuffed in, right? Like the time Scott had insisted on “helping” with Allison’s laundry, and her panties had stained all their white undershirts a blotchy shade of purple. Stiles thought panty-stealing was kind of creepy, especially since he didn’t have a ton of disposable income to replace the clothes he’d been hoarding since his last high school growth spurt, but Allison had grimaced her way back to thinking it was kind of cute. Things always managed to work out that way for Scott.

A set of shockingly sharp teeth emerged from the fluff and nipped at him in warning, and Stiles jumped, cradling his injured hand to his chest. “Okay, fine, I take it back. If you hose that lint off, I think you’ll find you’ve got a baby shark on this table, buddy.”

Scott gave him a look that was frankly rather uncalled for.

“What’s its name, anyway?” Stiles asked, daring to approach the beast again. “Fluffy McBitey? Jaws? Krum? Bruce?”

“Abigail Hale,” Scott said, scratching soothingly at something Stiles supposed was meant to be its ears. “And I’ve told you before to stop sticking your fingers in dogs’ mouths. That’s the fifth time this year you’ve been bitten. Eventually one’ll do more than nip at you, and I don’t want to be the person who has to tell your dad _or_ my mom why you’re missing a chunk out of your finger.”

“To be fair to myself, I had no idea that _was_ its mouth,” Stiles explained in his most reasonable tone, peering squinty-eyed at his finger to be sure there weren’t any toothmarks imprinted in his tender flesh. Satisfied he’d live, he decided to give the creature another try. This time when his fingers neared its tiny black nose, it let out a gravelly little rumble that reminded him of the last time he’d taken his Jeep off-roading. The Jeep had come out more or less intact. His pride had not.

“Knock it off, Stiles,” Scott grumbled at him, pushing his hand away and picking up a fuzzy little foot.

“Are you going to clip its nails?” Stiles asked, hovering as close as Scott’s tightening jawline indicated he was allowed. “Does it even have nails? I don’t think it’s a puppy, Scott. I think it’s some kind of Dr. Seuss creature. Straight out of a book, like - oooh, like one of those saltwater frogfish things that looks like it crawled out of a Far Side comic.”

“She’s a teacup pomeranian, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scott said, because he was a vet, not a marine biologist, and also a comics-hating heathen who’d snored through the last Marvel movie. Not even because he was a critic, which Stiles could’ve forgiven after a healthy debate. He’d claimed he was just _tired_ , and that he hadn’t understood why Mr. Iron was so upset, anyway. After a little bit of investigative questioning, Stiles still wasn’t sure if he’d meant Iron Man (based on the name) or the Hulk (based on Scott’s description of the character’s volatile temper) and had given up in despair.

“I’ll send you a link,” he conceded, knowing that Scott was unlikely to ever click through to the comic strip, but at least he would’ve done his part to enhance his friend’s pop culture education. There was only so much a guy could do.

Scott patted the creature on its presumed head. “You’re a healthy girl, aren’t you? All up on your shots, too. You’ve been well taken care of.”

Stiles scrunched his forehead in thought, rewinding their conversation. “Wait, you said Hale? You don’t mean _Laura_ Hale? There’s no way she’d have this kind of dog. She runs my dad’s K-9 unit. Her Malinois would _eat_ this teacup thing.”

“That breed you know,” Scott muttered, loud enough for Stiles to hear him.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles said, the _duh_ implied. “I’m pretty sure this thing’s never been enlisted as a police dog. Honestly, it’s an embarrassment to its breed. You’d be better off with a cat; I’d be willing to bet Bruce would lose in a fight with a songbird. Forget about rats.”

“I try,” Scott said. “And no, Abigail’s not Laura’s dog. She belongs to Laura’s brother. He moved into town a couple weeks ago; he said he’s staying with her while he looks for a place of his own.”

“Laura has a brother?” Stiles marveled, his mind blown by this new piece of information. Laura, who had sleek, dark hair and entrancing eyes, and whose glare tended to make him want to pee himself a little. Why had he never checked on the status of her _relatives_?

“No, Stiles,” Scott said, pointing a disapproving finger at him. “I know that look. That’s the look you had right before you found out she was dating Jordan.”

Stiles waved a dismissive hand. “I thought she was hot, yeah. But unlike you, my dear McCall, I don’t actually want to _date_ everyone I find attractive. You don’t want to buy everything you see in a museum, do you? Sometimes you wanna sit back and appreciate the view for a little while. In a totally non-creepy way. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Scott said, having thankfully given up on his short-lived attempts to avoid engaging with Stiles’s enviable conversational skills. “Like you did with Lydia.”

“Perfect example, glad you brought her up. Once I got past the initial rush of ‘who _is_ this goddess trying to best me in the spelling bee,’ I realized Lydia and I weren’t meant to be. Not romantically, anyway. It was like--” He paused to consider it. “Like seeing a Monet from a distance. Stunning, right? Makes you think you want to be right up on it. Dive off the bridge and into the pond. You know what I mean?”

“Not really. But you’re starting to sound a little creepy again.”

“ _Water lilies_ , Scott. It’s like you weren’t even in my art history class.”

“I wasn’t,” Scott reminded him with a greater effort at patience than Stiles felt was strictly necessary.

“Right. Your full animal doctor class load.” It’d been lonely, at first, not having Scott in his classes to whisper loudly with or to distract during lectures. But he’d gotten by. Made a few other friends, even. Taken fascinating classes that added nothing to his career path, but felt like officially-approved Wikipedia spirals, which ended up being his favorite part of school, anyway. “My point is - when I finally got closer to Lydia, she was still beautiful, sure, but not at all what I’d gotten into my head when she was still this unknowable, untouchable enigma. And she was a pretty extreme case. Laura Hale? She’s one of the prettiest people I’ve ever seen, but we have absolutely nothing in common. Other than a vague need to pay attention to my dad, and an appreciation for dogs that won’t pass out after two minutes on a run.”

“You haven’t been on a run since high school PE,” Scott said, rather unfairly. “And you failed that.”

“Because of asthma.” He trailed after Scott as he picked up the fluff-ball and headed along the hallway, towards the front of the building.

“ _I_ had asthma.”

“Exactly! It’s really hard to focus on something like running an eight minute mile or whatever when you’re worried your best friend might pass out in the middle of it.”

“Mhm,” Scott said. “So that’s why you nearly failed Chem, too?”

“Nah, that was just because Harris was a dick.” Harris had come close to screwing himself over there; he’d ended up giving Stiles a passing grade after Stiles stayed after class and pointed out if he failed, he’d have to repeat the entire year. He’d sit in the front row of Harris’s class the next time, he’d promised. Participate in every group discussion. Ask him for extra tutoring, if it’d help. He’d managed to work his way back up to a B+ before Harris got fed up and kicked him out, threatening to invest in earplugs.

Scott, fortunately, was far too good a bro to ever make a similar threat, even if he sometimes lost the thread of Stiles's topics. He stopped at the front desk to chat with Kira, who fumbled a pen-filled mug while staring adoringly at him. Stiles snorted. She’d been working there for a few months, and Scott somehow hadn’t clued in yet to the fact that she was a total goner for him. He was still fresh from his third Allison break-up, though, so Stiles was giving him some space before nudging him in her direction. They both loved Allison, but this last round had been particularly rough. Scott had finally admitted he wasn’t sure first loves were always meant to be _last_ loves, which was a huge step for him. And Kira was funny and sweet - qualities that’d win Scott over - with just enough of a dark streak for Stiles to approve of her. He’d even run into her in the local comicbook store a few times, which was a good sign. She’d help him introduce Scott to some real culture.

He was still dwelling on the thought when the man of his wildest, wettest dreams walked into the building, the bell over the door tinkling softly in his wake.

“Holy shit,” Stiles said, far louder than he’d meant to, and Scott looked up, the bitey lint-monster tucked in the crook of one arm, his other hand filled with the pens he’d been helping Kira gather.

“You’re right on time!” Scott said, handing the pens to Kira, not noticing her blush at the brush of his fingers against hers. “Abigail’s all set to go.”

“No problems?” the man asked, strolling up to the counter in painted-on dark wash jeans that stretched obscenely over his thighs, the collar of his leather jacket cupping his throat, a hint of collarbones barely visible beneath his thin, soft-looking shirt. Stiles wanted to touch it. He wanted to touch everything.

“I’d get kicked out of this museum,” he breathed, and the man arched an eyebrow at him and gave him a friendly smile.

“Hey,” Laura’s implausibly more attractive brother said, with a deep dimple in his stubbled cheek that would’ve rivaled Allison’s best smiles. He’d debate the matter with Scott later, he decided. Once he’d remembered how to speak.

Scott let the silence hang for a beat before stepping in. “She’s in perfect health, Mr. Hale. No sign of sniffles when she was in here, so any sneezing was probably just her adjusting to the new house. Dust, older carpets, things like that. Or she might’ve run into some pollen outside that she wasn’t used to, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Stiles snorted, amused by the mental picture of the puppy losing a fight with a dust bunny, and Leather Jacket Hale’s gaze swept back to him. “You Scott’s partner?” he asked, curiosity mixed with a dose of protectiveness. Stiles sent a _please don’t tell him I got his dog to bite me_ brainwave in Scott’s direction. There was no sense in starting off on the wrong foot.

“Partner?” he said out loud, finally ungluing his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Haha no why would you think that? I mean, not that I - obviously I like guys. Er, maybe that’s not obvious? My dad was kinda surprised when I told him. He had this seriously outdated idea that anyone who identified as not 100% straight dressed differently, or regularly wore rainbow-colored shirts or something. He checked out a lot of books from the library after I told him, and tried to have really awkward conversations with me, and it was honestly kinda terrible until he got it through his head that liking girls _and_ guys hadn’t changed anything about me, and he could treat me the same way he always had. He’s a good dad. Just, you know, a little behind the times now and then, but he does his best. But no, Scott and I are just friends. Best friends! Practically brothers.” He tugged self-consciously at the oversized plaid shirt he’d thrown on before hopping in his Jeep, not realizing at the time that he’d be dressing to meet the love of his life. He had a sinking feeling that there was a rather large mustard stain near the crotch of his pants, but he didn’t dare break eye contact to check, in case the fluffy beast’s owner hadn’t noticed yet.

“I meant business partner,” Distressingly Handsome Hale clarified. Stiles couldn’t tell if the twitch he was trying to conceal at the corner of his mouth was from amusement or a restrained desire to grab his dog and flee. He wanted to kiss it to find out.

“Oh,” he said instead. “Yeah, not that either.”

“Stiles helps out sometimes,” Scott offered. It was a rather severe stretch of the truth, and Stiles shot him a grateful look, mentally promising to scrub a cage or something the next time he stopped in to rile up the puppies.

“My dad’s the sheriff,” he added, not sure it was strictly relevant, but hoping it’d give him a much-needed air of respectability. _Not planning to kidnap your sad excuse for a dog, haha,_ he managed not to say, clamping his jaws over the words.

“Stiles Stilinski then? I’m Derek Hale. My older sister works for your dad.”

“I know,” Stiles said stupidly. Derek _unbearably gorgeous_ Hale smiled at him again, then turned back to the desk to finish up the paperwork Kira had been printing out while they talked.

Surprisingly, the name-dropping appeared to have worked, which meant Derek was too new in town to have heard the local gossip. Like how Stiles had slipped up a few too many times and had temporarily gotten his dad’s badge taken away. Or the pranks he’d pulled in high school. Or the still that’d been confiscated before he’d finished figuring out the chemistry behind a proper batch of moonshine. He hadn’t even really meant to drink it; he’d seen a couple movies set in the Prohibition Era and fell into a research spiral and wanted to see how hard it was, that was all. His dad hadn’t embraced the science project angle he’d tried to spin as a set of deputies dismantled his experiment.

Now that he was thinking about it, he was pretty sure Laura had been a fresh face around the office back then, which meant she hadn’t thought to warn her brother away from him yet. He couldn't estimate how long that’d last. It was important, then, to make the most of opportunities before all the doors slammed shut.

Derek scrawled his signature on the sheet Kira handed him - despite Stiles’s offers of help, Scott hadn't upgraded Deaton’s old systems to the modern, digital age yet - and capped the pen, setting it neatly on the edge of the counter.

“Ready to go home, honey?” he asked the now-wiggling, softly yipping pile of fur Scott was holding out to him. Derek took the creature in the palm of one hand and effortlessly raised it to face level. A minuscule pink tongue darted out and caught the tip of his nose.

His nose was perfect, Stiles thought, shamelessly staring at his profile. His laugh was perfect.

“Do you go to dog parks?” he blurted out, paying no attention to the slight shake of Scott’s head and the caution creeping into his frown.

“Not often,” Derek said, extracting a thin pink leash from his jacket pocket and clipping it onto a collar that Stiles couldn't even see under the gremlin’s thick ruff. “She's too small to play with most dogs. Not from lack of trying - she's got the heart of a wolfhound - but I'm worried she'll get trampled.”

He bent smoothly to set her on the ground. Stiles gulped and jerked his eyes away from Derek’s exquisitely formed ass before he straightened.

“Is that where you take yours?” Derek asked as Abigail danced around his ankles, like a tiny tumbleweed the wind had caught.

“Mine?” Stiles echoed. “Oh, my dog. Yeah. He's, you know, always needing the exercise. And the socializing.”

“She could use more socializing,” Derek admitted, looking down at the whirling ball of fur. Stiles couldn’t tell if she was trying to chase her tail, or if the tail was chasing her. “I'm afraid if I hold her back too much, she'll turn into a little tyrant. She and my sister already have a daily battle of wills, and so far Laura’s losing.”

“How does she handle Laura’s K-9?”

“Caesar mostly ignores her. I have to round her up periodically so she'll stop trying to chew on his ears. He's patient enough, but not really friendly.”

“My dog’s friendly,” Stiles said, taking the opening and running with it. “Loves little dogs, actually. He's always got them piled all over him when we’re at the park.”

“Really?” Derek asked, that infernal dimple emerging again. “Maybe it's worth a try, then. If you don't mind?”

“I’ve never minded anything less in my life.” It was the most honest statement he'd made all day - and somehow his unrestrained enthusiasm didn't make Derek reconsider his rash offer to spend time together. He kept his eyes fixed on Stiles’s, who'd already started cataloging the colors. Prettier than even Laura’s, he'd already concluded. More colors mixed in, like a brilliant painter had grown ambitious with his palette, swirling in several shades of green and grey and gold and splashing in hints of the warmest, most welcoming brown.

Derek was still speaking, and Stiles arranged his face into his best _what, I wasn't lost in your eyes, soulmate_ expression.

“When do you usually go? I'm still settling in with work and everything, but I'm usually free by 6 or so. Is that too late?”

“No, that's great. I mean, yeah, it's light for a few hours still. People will have their dogs out. People like me! Me and my dog. But weekends are good, too. Saturday? Maybe around 11?”

“Saturday works for me,” Derek said, tugging gently at the leash. “I've gotta get home, but I'll see you then. The park on the northern edge of the Preserve, right? Laura pointed it out when she was giving me the tour.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, sending an awkward wave after Derek as he strode gracefully out the door, a round puffball bouncing alongside.

“Stiles,” Scott said, and he winced, swinging back around to face him.

“Yeah buddy?”

“You don't have a dog.”

“Yeah, about that--”

“And you are not borrowing one to seduce Derek Hale,” he said firmly. “I run a vet’s office, not a pet dating rental agency.”

“Intriguing idea, weird phrasing,” Stiles pointed out, “and I'm hurt, Scotty. I only need one for the weekend. Saturday morning! I'll bring it back in the afternoon. It's like a free dog walking service. Honestly, you should be paying me for the whole thing.”

“No,” Scott said, with the finality in his voice that meant Stiles wasn't going to be able to win this time.

“Damn,” Stiles said. “Well, this might be a problem.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles didn’t particularly like contributing to stereotypes, but sometimes the results were undeniable. He breezed through the sheriff’s station doors the next morning, balancing a box of gourmet donut holes in one hand and carrying a sturdy cardboard container of coffee in the other.

“I’m on a time-sensitive mission!” he informed the deputy at the front desk, giving her a wide grin when she simply waved him through.

“You’d better bring me back a cup! And save me a cinnamon sugar one!” she called after him, and he spun around to salute her with the box.

“Yes, ma’am! Would never leave you hanging.”

He barely managed to set the box down before the on-shift deputies swarmed the breakroom, leaving him swatting away greedy hands so he could keep his promise, and at least a portion of his bribe.

“Jesus, Jordan, aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”

Jordan smiled around the chocolate-coated donut hole he’d already shoved into his mouth. “These don’t count. They’re practically part of the job.”

“Hang on,” Stiles said, stopping him before he could head back to his desk. He started to reach for a glazed donut, then picked up a salted maple one instead and held it out. “Give this to Laura, will you? You can tell her it’s from me.”

“I can tell you right now she’s not interested in you, but sure,” Jordan said agreeably, snagging the treat and swaggering away before Stiles could hit him with an appropriate comeback.

“I’m not,” he spluttered anyway, yanking the mostly-empty box away from the thinning crowd. “It’s because I’m a good person!” he yelled at Jordan’s smug back.

“Of course you are,” Allison said as she twisted the cap off the take-out container. “Do you want any of this? I grabbed some mugs.”

“Nah, I’m good. I just figured you guys needed a break from that shitty stuff you brew in here. Will you take one to Tara, though?”

“Of course.” She poured two steaming mugs full, then screwed the lid back on and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, biting her lip as though holding back a question.

“How’re you doing?” he asked, watching her shake powdered creamer into the mugs with a steady hand.

“Okay,” she said. She shot a glance at him through her eyelashes. “How’s Scott doing?”

“Heartbroken. But smiling. He’s Scott.”

As intended, that brought out a soft smile. “I’m glad. I’m sorry we can’t seem to make it work.”

“Me too,” he said, meaning it. “But we’re still good, you know? You’re always gonna be a part of Scott’s life.”

“I hope so.” She touched him gently on the shoulder before moving away. “I’ll see you later, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat. Neither she nor Scott held significant grudges, so he knew it wouldn’t be long before things went back to something approximating normal. He felt a stab of guilt, though, about skimming over her future in search of ways to make Scott’s happier. She’d been a fixture for so long that it was almost like losing a sister every time they churned through one of their breakups. Maybe Scott could deal with that constant tug-of-war, but Stiles wasn’t sure _he_ could. It tore his loyalties in a way that didn’t come naturally to him. It’d be easier if he could hate Allison for breaking his friend’s heart, but even with his single-minded devotion to Scott, he'd never been able to convince himself the friction was entirely her fault.

 _Relationships_ , he thought grimly, wondering for the millionth time whether they were even worth the effort. He chewed absently through a donut hole, the sugar sending a renewed surge of energy through his veins, reminding him how badly he wanted to finish cataloging the colors of Derek’s eyes. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t try.

His dad gave an exasperated sigh when he rapped on the frame of his office door, which he assumed had been left ajar for his convenience.

“I haven't even said anything yet,” he protested.

“But you have that look,” his dad said. “Out with it, kiddo. It's a busy morning.”

“You have two traffic reports on your desk,” Stiles said, having learned a decade earlier how to map out a room’s contents in the flash of time it took his dad to sweep evidence in a drawer, or to slap intriguing case files closed.

“ _Stiles_ ,” his dad said. Right. Best not to start off with him already prepared to shoot down Stiles’s proposals.

“I brought you a mini cronut,” he wheedled, pulling it from behind his back in a dramatic gesture. “I kept it in my pocket so your starving hounds wouldn't slobber all over it. It only got a little smashed.” He brushed off a few stray pieces of lint and set it in his dad's hand.

It earned a suspicious look, but Stiles could see the interest sparking in his pale blue eyes. “Now I know something’s up, but I’m willing to listen for the amount of time it takes me to enjoy this. Make it good, kid.”

He folded his limbs into the stiff chair his dad kept in his office to prevent visitors from outstaying their welcome. “Speaking of hounds. Are there any K-9s that need a little extra attention? Like, say, this weekend. From maybe ten until noonish on Saturday.”

“For the last time, it’s illegal for a civilian to conduct a drug bust.”

“That was _weeks_ ago, Dad. And I’m telling you, Greenberg was always the kid smuggling joints to school. There’s no way he’s not running a meth lab or something now that he’s back in town. But who am I to say you should stop Beacon Hills from setting up its very own _Breaking Bad_ scenario?”

His dad disregarded their old argument by biting into the edge of the cronut with an expression of pure bliss. It was a good sign that Stiles’s campaign to keep sweets out of his office was going well; that was the face of a man who’d been craving a good donut for the last year. He was almost proud of his old man.  
  
His dad, of course, immediately ruined the moment. “I’m not signing off on any form of vigilante justice. It was bad enough when you snuck Roger out of the house in the middle of the night and ran around the neighborhood, calling him Krypto.”

“Oh yeah,” Stiles said, grinning at the memory. It’d been prior to his Batman phase, when both his parents were around, and he was young and idealistic enough to believe in Superman’s truth and justice mantra. “I spent forever sewing those capes. I don’t think it was fair for you to take them away. You probably stifled my budding career as a designer.”

“Yes,” his dad said dryly, casting a judging eye over Stiles’s ragged hoodie.

“You know the old story, Dad. In a two-hairdresser town, you don’t go to the one with the best hair. You go to the one who obviously _cut_ that guy’s hair. Outside appearances are deceptive.”

“But well over two decades of knowing you isn’t.” He brushed the crumbs off his desk. “Time’s up. You can’t take one of my deputies’ dogs. Now get out of here so I can do some actual work.”

“Ugh,” he said, not budging from his seat. “You and Scott.”

“If you already tried this with Scott, what made you think _I’d_ be the easier sell?” his dad asked, which was a legitimate point.

“I _need_ one, Dad,” he said, taking the emotional shortcut. “My future happiness depends on it. All my hopes and dreams. You wouldn’t take that away from me, would you?”

His dad rubbed a tired hand over his face. “You have two more minutes, then I want you out of that chair.”

He opened his mouth, waiting for a believable explanation to fall out. He shut it when nothing happened. In situations like this, he tended to barrel forward, talking without necessarily stopping to think, since the sheer outpouring of language was usually more convincing than the words themselves. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work.

His dad pointedly checked his wristwatch.

“ _Fine_ ,” he said, huffing an impatient breath through his nose. “I met someone. We’ve got a date this weekend - at least, I think I can turn it into a date once we’re there. And I’m not sure how it happened, but I kinda said I have a dog. I can’t show up _without_ one. He’s going to think I’m a liar.”

“And he’ll think what after the second date, when he finds out you stole a dog from the police?”

Stiles hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I don’t know the last time you’ve taken my advice, but I _did_ win your mom over, kid, and she was the pickiest person I’ve ever met in my life. You wanna know how I did it?”

“You made out with her after stopping a purse-snatcher,” he said, having heard many variations of the tale from his mom over the years, including the ones she and her friends giggled through when she thought he was quietly playing with his toys in his room.

His dad turned red. “Well - yes. But I was honest with her. I never lied to her, and I’ve never lied to you. Trust is the only foundation that’ll last.”

“I do tell the truth!” he insisted. “With a healthy dose of embellishment.”

His dad heaved a chest-deep sigh, which meant he was about to concede. Stiles shifted eagerly to the edge of his seat.

“What are you planning to do with this dog?”

“Take him to the park. There and back, that’s it.”

“You can ask Laura. She might know of a handler who’d be willing to let you play with their dog for a couple hours, but if she says no, that’s the end of it.”

Stiles slumped back in the chair. “Uh - I really can’t ask Laura, Dad.”

His dad frowned at him, then his face cleared. “Aw hell kid, you didn’t run into Derek Hale.”

He shot finger guns at him. “Getting slow in your old age, but you get there eventually.”

“I should’ve known,” he groaned, now rubbing both hands over his face, as though it would make Stiles disappear.

“You’ve seen him, then? He’s inhuman. He might actually be proof of alien existence. Or artificial intelligence. Or both.”

“He’s a good-looking kid,” he agreed. “I should’ve seen this one coming.”

“You really should’ve. I’ll forgive you for not introducing him to me earlier, if you’ll do me this tiny little favor. Just this once, Dad.”

“Talk to Boyd,” he said, clearly having given up entirely. “He and Reyes are off shift together this weekend. He might be willing to let you borrow Hitchcock.”

“Can I tell him it’s an order?”

“No,” his dad said, and Stiles stood up, feeling more cheerful than he’d been all week.

“I’ll let you make a speech at our wedding,” he offered. “As long and with as many embarrassing stories as you like. Tears, even.”

“Go,” his dad said, and Stiles carefully shut the door behind himself, fist-pumping as soon as he was out of view. Challenge One: overcome with flying colors. The rest would be smooth sailing.


	3. Chapter 3

“All this time, I’ve been operating under the impression that your handler was a nice person,” Stiles confided. The beagle’s floppy ears twitched in response. “I thought Boyd and I were bros.”

It’d ended up being difficult even getting Boyd to agree to join him in an empty interrogation room, away from prying ears.

“I’m dating Erica,” he’d said, in the most unwelcoming voice Stiles had ever heard - and he’d spent three years on a lacrosse team with Jackson Whittemore.

“I’m not trying to _make out with you_!” Stiles had yelped, the heads of everyone in the bullpen swiveling in their direction in intrigued unison. Across the room, Laura had raised an eyebrow, looking a hell of a lot like her supermodel brother, now that Stiles knew what to look for. He’d lowered his voice, bending down to Boyd’s desk so the others couldn’t hear. “Why does everyone always - nevermind. It’s not about that. When I said it was a matter of the heart, I didn’t mean _yours_ , as amazing as you look in that uniform.”

“As long as we’re clear,” Boyd had said, nevertheless keeping his distance as they’d headed down the corridor, as though Stiles was planning to tackle him with sappy love confessions. Like he’d _ever_ done that. Other than the time in middle school, with Heather. And with Danny in tenth grade. Neither experience had worked out particularly well for him, and quiet, non-confrontational Boyd had probably witnessed both scenes from a safe distance. It seemed like a thing he’d do, and then hold over Stiles’s head for the rest of their lives.

“My dad said I could borrow your dog,” he’d said as soon as he’d shut the door and Boyd had flipped the blinds open.

“I doubt it,” Boyd had said, sitting down at the table and folding his thickly muscled arms.

“He pretty broadly hinted at the fact that you and Erica were in some serious need of alone time. Working long shifts lately, huh? No room for romance. No flowers and candles and nights on the town and all that classy shit. I’d be doing you a solid, man.”

Boyd had looked primed to object further, but Stiles’s dad was more helpful than he preferred to admit. Erica had only recently finished her residency, which meant that her schedule and Boyd’s hadn’t lined up for quite some time. They could probably use a day all to themselves, no matter how undemanding Boyd’s K-9 partner was. Stiles had been banking on this bet, and when Boyd had relaxed his arms, looking down at his linked fingers, he’d known his dad had made the right call.

“This doesn’t make us friends,” Boyd had said on Saturday morning, as he handed over Hitchcock’s leash and a backpack stuffed with treats, a collapsible water dish, and an assortment of doggie care items Stiles would’ve never thought he’d need for a single day of dogsitting. Which was probably why Boyd’s typically impassive face had betrayed a certain degree of skepticism as Stiles had struggled to not drop the heavy bag.

“Non-bros helping each other out, got it,” Stiles had said, tightening his fingers on the leash before Boyd had a chance to change his mind.

“You have my phone number in case of emergencies. If you start using it for anything else, I’ll block you.”

Stiles had started to laugh, but Boyd hadn’t looked like he was joking. “Sure, yeah. I’ll lose your number the minute Hitchcock’s home.”

“Good,” Boyd had said, standing in the driveway as Stiles had gotten into his Jeep, wondered whether he was supposed to buckle the seatbelt around the dog, and carefully pulled into the street, the engine a comfortingly familiar rumble.

“At least you love me, Roscoe,” Stiles had said, patting the dashboard as the beagle left nose prints and thick streams of drool on the passenger side window.

They’d gotten to the park with plenty of time to spare, which meant Stiles had been sitting on a bench for at least fifteen minutes, the leash wrapped around his hand, his leg bouncing nervously. What if Derek didn’t show? They hadn’t exchanged numbers. He might not even remember Stiles’s name, much less the hour he’d offhandedly agreed to meet a stranger for a doggie play date. Maybe he’d mentioned it to Laura, who’d sat him down and described Stiles’s entire misunderstood past.

Hitchcock had tried to tug free for the first ten minutes but had eventually flattened himself into the grass, letting out quiet whines with every exhale, like a dying teakettle.

“I’m pretty sure Erica likes me,” he told the dog, not actually convinced it was true. “Did you know I went to school with both of them? Boyd and I ate lunch together sometimes.” It was more accurate to say they’d eaten _near_ each other on a semi-regular basis while not talking. Stiles had assumed it was because they had one of those awesome silent connection things. Not that Boyd had been reading his book and secretly hoping he’d go away.

He dug the toe of his sneaker into the grass. “We used to play superheroes when we were kids. Erica, I mean, during recess. She always wanted to be Catwoman, even though I told her she had Supergirl hair. That’s when she bit me and I rubbed sand in her hair.”

The dog whistle-whined.

“We talk now, though! We’re buds. I think.” He watched a ladybug crawl over his shoe, trying his best to keep his body still until it unfurled its wings and flew away. A pair of boots entered his eyeline, and Hitchcock sat up, his tail whipping back and forth.

“Hey there,” Derek said to the dog, shifting his teacup puppy to one hand so he could kneel on the grass and stroke Hitchcock’s soft ears. “And what’s your name?” He looked expectantly up at Stiles when neither he nor the dog answered.

“Oh,” he said. “Derek, meet Hitchcock. Hitchcock, Derek.”

“Classic movie fan, huh? I always liked _North by Northwest_. I stopped watching his stuff for a while after Laura made our babysitter show us _The Birds_ , though. I still get a little freaked out when there are too many crows around at a time.” He went slightly pink under his beard when Stiles didn’t respond right away, looking embarrassed at the overshare. Which was totally unacceptable, considering that was exactly the type of conversation Stiles always failed at getting Scott to participate in when they went to the movies.

He regrouped, with more effort than it should’ve taken. Derek was _distracting_ up close, a living embodiment of da Vinci’s golden ratio. “I--” h _adn’t thought to ask where the name came from_ “--liked Rear Window. I had a huge crush on Grace Kelly.”

“Not Jimmy Stewart?” He was doing that repressed grin thing again, the one Stiles had longed to press his fingers against in the vet’s office.

“I’m not sure I knew how to separate out crushes from admiration back then. Grace Kelly was an actual princess, though. How do you compete with that? And my mom got starry-eyed over Jimmy Stewart, which made it weird. My dad always grumbled when she pulled out his movies, like he was actual competition.”

“I think everyone in my family had a thing for Cary Grant,” Derek said, flicking a glance up at Stiles, then scratching under Hitchcock’s chin, his fingers getting swiped by a slobbery tongue in the process.

“Your mom and Laura?”

“My sisters. My mom. I admired him, like you were saying.”

“Ah,” Stiles said, unable to keep the shreds of disappointment out of his voice. Derek looked up again before he had the chance to finish thinking: _Straight, then_.

“I’ve always thought he was a great actor, but I had more of a crush on Jimmy Stewart. Especially in things like _The Philadelphia Story_. He was funny. Talkative. Handsome, in a lanky, charming sort of way.”

 _Not straight,_ Stiles corrected. _And...possibly flirting? Holy shit._ He pinched himself, as subtly as he could.

“So should we try this?” Derek asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, ready to lean down to the mouth so temptingly tilted towards his, but Derek was setting his dryer-detritus down on the grass, keeping his hands firmly braced around her fuzzy body.

“Say hello to Abbie,” he instructed the beagle, who sniffed curiously at her and then jerked his head away, looking up at Stiles with betrayed eyes, as though he’d been startled to find his new friend was hiding another creature. Stiles couldn’t blame him. He was still half-convinced she was a semi-realistic wind-up toy.

Abigail lifted one tiny foot and tried to paw at Hitchcock’s nose, which made him let out the teakettle-noise again, jolting to his feet and lifting his face out of her reach.

Derek settled back on his heels. “You said he was good with small dogs?”

“Yeah, about that,” Stiles said. “I might’ve stretched the truth?”

As if summoned by Stiles’s guilt, a terrier bounded up to them, nearly bowling Abigail over in its enthusiasm. She held her ground, yipping at it and displaying her rows of tiny shark teeth, and it changed direction, trying to sniff at Hitchcock, who planted himself on Stiles’s feet and shed clear _not interested_ vibes. The terrier pressed its nose into Derek’s hand, then dashed away in search of better company.

“I don’t think this dog likes other dogs at all,” Derek said.

“He’s more of a people dog,” Stiles admitted. “A one person dog. That person not being me.” His hands were starting to sweat, so he unwound the leash, intending to set it down for a split second while he wiped his palms on his jeans, but the dog seemed to sense its tether loosening, an opportunity it’d been waiting for all morning.

“I don’t think this dog likes anyone,” Derek observed, watching as Hitchcock bolted across the park, his leash trailing behind him, his legs a blur as he headed for the line of trees in the distance. “Is this fenced all the way around?”

“Oh hell,” Stiles said, thinking of the police academy’s extensive training in painful ways to deal with criminals. His dad probably wouldn’t let Boyd kill him. Too much. “I think so?”

“You think so,” Derek said, his eyebrows scrunching into a judgemental angle.

“I’ve never been here before. But I doubt there’d be so many dogs off leash if they could run away that easily, right?”

“You’ve never - Hitchcock isn’t your dog, is he?”

“If you want to define ownership as being the person who has their name on the tags, and on the license, and lets the dog sleep in their bed, and - has met the dog at any point before today. Then, uh, no. You could argue he’s not mine.”

“I’m guessing he won’t listen if you call for him, then.”

“I really don’t imagine he would.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Stiles planning out how to make his dad feel too sorry for him to indulge in an _I told you so_ session. He wouldn’t even have to do much pretending. Derek refusing to ever speak to him again was going to be the worst moment of his life to date. Probably of his life from this point forward, too; it wasn’t like anyone else in Derek’s league existed. If they did, they’d be in Hollywood, or on Mount Olympus, not stooping to engage with Stiles.

He’d managed to generate a strong dose of self-pity by the time Derek stood to his feet, brushing loose blades of grass off his jeans and tucking Abigail into his jacket, zipping it securely around her until only her beady eyes were peering out.

“If it is fully fenced, I wouldn’t worry too much; he’s a beagle. They do this. It’s like Labs and eating everything in sight, or Portuguese Water Dogs and counter surfing. If you let a beagle loose, it’ll catch a scent and run until it tracks it down, or finds a different trail, or you’re able to call it back. Treats might work, if you have anything with a strong scent.”

Stiles patted fruitlessly at his pants, standing up to check his back pockets, in case he’d stashed something useful there and forgotten about it. It’d happened before. “I have a bag in the car; I don’t really know what’s in it, though.”

Derek quietly assessed the distance to the parking lot, then to the tricolor blur streaking away from them. “If we get close enough, we might be able to grab the leash.”

“We?” Stiles asked.

The amusement was back, crinkling in friendly lines around Derek’s eyes now. “We’ve gotta retrieve the dog before I can find out what the hell you’re doing with someone else’s pet. If we don’t get past the first part, we’ll never get to the second, and I have a feeling that story’s going to be worth hearing.”

“I had my reasons,” Stiles said, hoping he’d find a way to make them sound less insane before Derek cashed in on that request.

“I look forward to hearing them.” They smiled at each other for another few beats, until Abigail tilted her head up and bumped against Derek’s throat, bringing him back to the task at hand.

They broke into a light jog, which turned into a run when Derek nudged his elbow against Stiles’s arm and asked, “Out of curiosity, did Hitchcock’s actual owner tell you anything about him knowing how to climb fences?”

“Oh hell,” Stiles panted, painful stitches already pulling at his side from the exertion. Scott could never hear about this. Any of it. “He didn’t volunteer that information, and I had no idea it was a thing I’d ever need to ask.”

“Might want to add it to the list for the next time you borrow someone’s dog,” Derek suggested, cupping a careful hand under the furry lump in his chest so he could ramp up his speed another few notches without jostling her loose. Stiles did his best to keep up, a phantom Finstock yelling in his ear.

_What’s the point of those gazelle legs, if you can’t even run across the field without falling over? You’re a disgrace, Bilinski!_

“Sorry, Coach,” he muttered breathlessly.

Boyd was definitely, positively, without question going to kill him. And Erica would help hide the body.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles pressed his finger against the doorbell, listening to the chime echo through the house. He let go and rubbed the side of his sneaker against his pant leg, the rasp of rubber against wet fabric making him grit his teeth. The heavy, swamp-smelling beagle in his arms whimpered in agreement.

“You don't get to complain,” he told the dog, who’d ended up being a completely terrible listener. He really should've taken one of Scott’s puppies. He could've worn him down. And those things were damn cute. Warm and wiggly and always tumbling over their own stubby legs and fat bellies. They would never know how to scale a chainlink fence, or lead two grown men on a chase through two fields and an overgrown, muddy pond.

“Are they not home?” Derek called from the end of the driveway, where he'd insisted on staying. _I've never met them,_ he'd said. _I'm soaking wet. I wrestled their dog away from a flock of angry geese. I_ told _you how I feel about birds, Stiles. It's literally the only thing you know about me._

 _That's not true,_ Stiles had said, looking dopily into his sea-green eyes. _You grew up watching black and white movies, and could probably teach a film studies class if you wanted. You're a good brother. And a walking dog encyclopedia. You spent your morning chasing down a speed demon and facing your worst fears, just to help out some guy who lied to you in your first conversation. You're the one they'll want to thank for bringing their dog back in one piece. And anyway, maybe they won't strangle me right off the bat if there's a witness._

 _I'll come with you,_ Derek had agreed, his ears tinting pinker with each line of praise. _But only because I don't want to ruin the inside of my car. The seats are new._

Stiles took the deal. His Jeep had experienced worse over the years. It’d recover from a few clothes-dripping puddles.

“They might be out,” he called back. “But there are two cars in the driveway. Sure you don't want to come up here and help me look in the windows?”

“I'm good,” Derek said. He motioned at Abigail, whom he'd removed from his jacket and carefully checked over after the pond incident, feeling each tiny limb and nuzzling her miniature nose in relief. She was sniffing at the bushes along the sidewalk, seeming in better shape than any of them. She'd probably enjoyed the entire thing, the little gremlin.

“Suit yourself,” Stiles said, and pushed the doorbell again, harder this time.

When the door finally swung open, he plastered on his most innocent smile, the one he'd employed when their neighbors asked his parents silly questions like who'd been riding a bike through their flowerbeds at night, or who'd been feeding their dogs scraps of lunchmeat through the fence and encouraging them to dig holes.

It hadn't exactly worked then, either. But practice made perfect, or so wiser men than he had claimed.

Boyd’s shirtless chest was glistening, his pajama pants loosely knotted at the hip. Erica was standing behind him with her arms crossed over a baggy, thigh-length button-up shirt. She had definite sex hair. Which explained, he supposed, why they hadn't been answering their door.

“Hey there!” he said brightly. “Returning your dog, as promised!”

“Did you try to drown him?” Erica asked, dropping her annoyed stance and coming closer. "Why are you both wet? And who's the dreamboat in our driveway?"

They all turned to look at Derek, who gave them a light finger wave but stayed put.

"That's Derek Hale," Boyd said, after calmly assessing the situation.

"He said he didn't know you," Stiles objected. He sent Derek an impatient gesture that made him reluctantly tug at the leash and approach the house.

"We haven't met," Boyd said. "But Laura and I have been friends for years. Plus the resemblance is striking. If I'd known _that_ was your matter of the heart, I never would've said yes."

"What's wrong with Derek?" Stiles asked, bristling at the insult.

"Nothing I know of." He eyed Stiles. "Possibly his taste in men. That remains to be seen."

“Hi,” Derek said once he'd reached the doorstep. “I'm Derek, and this is--”

“Abigail,” Boyd finished.

Derek’s surprised, delighted expression sent a bolt of jealousy thundering through Stiles’s tired limbs. _Five seconds_ with Vernon freaking _I don't want to be your friend Stiles_ Boyd, and Derek was giving him _that_ look. It wasn't fair.

 _Life isn't fair,_ he heard in an echo of his dad’s patient voice. _If you wait for fortune to drop into your lap, you're gonna starve. Get out there and put the work in, for whatever it is you want._

He probably hadn't meant “if you want to befriend my deputies” or “if you want a bearded Adonis to feel interested in pressing his body against yours,” but all life lessons could be adapted.

“Laura talks about you,” Boyd was explaining. His stance had softened, and he was letting Abigail tromp on his bare feet, her little teeth flashing as she playfully snapped in the air around his toes. “I'm Vernon Boyd, but please don't use my first name.”

“Boyd, yeah! Laura talks about you, too. Says you're her favorite person at work. Other than her boyfriend, I guess.” He grimaced slightly as he said it, as though he wasn't completely sold on Deputy Parrish’s position in his big sister’s life.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles said, staring at Boyd. “I haven't seen you smile since sixth grade.”

“That’s only true when you're around, Stilinski,” he said, but stepped back, leaving room for them to enter the house. “Put my dog down and explain the latest reason for me to never trust you.”

“You might want to close the door first.” Derek touched Stiles’s arm in warning, as though he'd make that kind of rookie mistake again.

Erica laughed, and Boyd's lips curved into yet another smile.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, pouring as much accusation into the words as he could. “You knew this would happen! You absolute fucker!”

“He runs away constantly,” Erica said. “And really only listens to Boyd. He's a good police sniffer, but a terrible pet. I let him out in the backyard last week, took my eyes off him for five minutes, and he was gone. I have no idea how he even got out, but it took me an hour of searching before I had to call Boyd to come get him.”

“He climbs fences,” Derek said. “Fast, too. You could probably put him in some agility competitions if he'd behave.”

Hitchcock let his tongue loll out, looking pleased with himself. Stiles handed him over to Boyd, who lifted the beagle like he was as light as Derek’s cream puff puppy.

“He's a good dog,” Boyd said. “But yeah, there's a reason handlers don't usually let other people wander in off the street to take care of their dogs.”

“This explains so much,” Stiles grumbled. “Does my dad know?”

“He ran away from your dad once, too,” he confirmed, grinning.

“I'm disowning my entire social circle. That's it, I've had it. Except Derek. Derek fished your dog out of a _pond_. That deserves a reward or something.” When Stiles finished his rant and looked over at them, they were pocketing their phones, having clearly already exchanged phone numbers.

“Do I still have to delete your number?” he asked.

“Yes.” Boyd tilted his head towards the door. “If you don't mind, Erica and I are busy.”

Stiles shrugged off the backpack, which he'd never even had a chance to open, and let it drop in their entryway. “If you ever have kids, don't ask me to babysit.”

“Not in a million years,” Erica agreed. “Call us tomorrow, Derek. We know this great dog-friendly cafe downtown; they even bake their own dog biscuits.”

“Abbie’ll be in heaven,” Derek said. “Should I bring Laura and Caesar?”

“Yeah, I haven't seen her in ages.” Erica pushed her curly hair out of her face. She had dark circles under her eyes and wasn’t wearing makeup, but she looked far more relaxed than the last time Stiles had run into her at the hospital. “I feel like I haven't talked to anyone but nurses and sick people in months. Maybe _you_ two can go to the cafe, and I'll take Laura dancing.”

“Do you need a ride?” Boyd asked, holding the door open for them, Hitchcock hefted over his shoulder and drooling happily down his neck. “I only see one car out there.” He let the word seep out like he'd set it off in quotation marks, and Stiles glowered at him, not sure which part offended him more - the slight on his beloved Jeep, or the insinuation that Derek might need rescuing.

“Nah,” Derek said, glancing at Stiles, who thought pettily, _At least_ I _still get the dimpled smile, hah_. “Stiles is taking me home. I'll call you, though. It was really nice to meet you both.”

“I like them,” Derek said on their way back down the driveway. Abigail bounced behind him, the two of them looking for all the world like a model fresh from a seaside photoshoot who’d accidentally stuck the end of a leash into a cotton candy machine. It gave Stiles the same creeping desire to help as seeing someone who didn’t realize they were trailing toilet paper out of a bathroom stall. “Boyd’s funny. I haven't met a lot of people in town yet.”

Stiles paused to feel guilty for his thoughts. He hadn’t really considered it from Derek’s side; of course he was on the hunt for potential new friends. That’s what Stiles was, wasn’t he? Another guy who’d cornered a lonely newcomer and dragged him into hanging out.

“The ones I’ve met so far are turning out to be pretty great, though,” Derek added, sending him a meaningful sidelong look that made Stiles trip over his own feet.

“Lawsuit waiting to happen,” he said, clearing his throat. “They should get a citation for letting the tree roots push up the sidewalk like that.”

Derek kindly didn’t comment on the fact that the closest tree was at the end of the block. He simply waited for Stiles to lean over and unlock his door, then boosted Abigail onto the seat, squeezing in carefully after her. She sniffed at the gear shift, then licked the dash - Scott had probably spilled ice cream there at some point - before tumbling into a soft bundle on Derek’s lap. He set his hand on his thigh, turning his wrist for her to brace her paws against so she’d stay steady as the Jeep shook to life, the engine grunting and sputtering from the effort.

Stiles had goose down stuck to his shirt sleeves, and there were probably some irreparable stains on both his good jeans and his car seats, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.


	5. Chapter 5

“Laura’s working a double shift,” Derek said when Stiles pulled over in front of the building he’d indicated. “You wanna come in?”

“ _Do_ I,” Stiles exclaimed. “I mean, yeah. Sure. I’m free for a bit.” He shifted into park and hopped out, pocketing his keys.

Derek pushed down the lock on the passenger door and shut it, looking around for street signs as he cradled Abigail to his chest. “I’m not used to unmetered parking,” he explained. “It’s weird to be able to just stop anywhere without worrying about checking the time.”

“Beacon Hills doesn’t have a big population _or_ tourism influx. There was a red light camera installed for a hot second, but my dad said dealing with all the angry complaints wasn’t worth the money it brought in. Around here, unless it’s a high-traffic day, we tend to treat stop lights more like stop signs. Check every direction, roll through if there’s nothing in sight but deer and coyotes.”

Derek huffed a laugh. He led Stiles to the door, ushering him through first. “I was running late this morning partially because I circled the parking lot three times looking for pay stations,” he admitted. “I’m still half-afraid I missed something, and my car’ll get ticketed or towed before I’m able to pick it up.”

“Won’t happen,” Stiles assured him. “And anyway, if you did end up with a ticket, Laura or I could get it thrown out.”

“Sounds illegal,” he said, frowning.

“Small perks of small town connections. It’s not like we’d shred records of an actual crime. Probably. Parking tickets, though? Piece of cake.” He squeaked the toes of his shoes together nervously. “But are you wanting to get changed and head back over there right now?” Maybe that was why Derek had asked him to stay; if Laura wasn’t around, it might take a while before he was able to find someone else to drop him off at his car.

“I’m not in a rush.” Derek hooked his keys on a nail by the door and shrugged his jacket off. Abigail trotted deeper into the apartment, her nails clicking on the hardwood floor. Stiles should’ve followed, instead of lingering by the cluttered shoe racks, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away from the soft grey shirt clinging to Derek’s body, molding to the lines of his lean muscles. He bent at the waist to untie his shoes, and Stiles came back to himself, kicking his sneakers off and stuffing his wet socks into them as an afterthought.

He debated silently over whether to remove his overshirt. It held a distinct smell of pond and goose, which made him feel gross keeping it against his skin, but did that seem too much like undressing? While he was still considering, Derek stripped his t-shirt off, letting it dangle from one hand as he ran the other through his hair, his abs rippling temptingly from the stretch of his long torso.

“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” Stiles said, not sure whether he was meant to sit down somewhere, or continue dripping safely by the door, or maybe leave? “I’ll just--”

“Interested in joining me?”

Stiles blinked.

“There’s only one,” Derek explained, his voice casual but the muscles in his shoulders bunched with tension, as though anticipating rejection. “It’d save time.”

“And water,” Stiles said.

Derek quirked a smile at him. “Is that a yes?”

“I mean - I can’t even fathom saying no to that. I’m surprised, that’s all. You could say flabbergasted. Which is a word I don’t think I’ve ever said out loud in my life.”

“Not used to people moving so fast in Beacon Hills?”

“Fuck you, I went to school in New York.” He started to unbutton his shirt, watching Derek in case he was missing a punchline. Derek merely dropped his gaze to follow the movement of Stiles’s fingers, his free hand now thumbing at the button of his jeans. “ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles said again, with an entirely different intonation this time.

“I spent a couple years in New York,” Derek said conversationally. “Some in Chicago. One in Frankfurt.”

“What the hell are you doing in Beacon Hills?” He fumbled at his shirt, suddenly unable to remember how buttons worked, and Derek let his fall carelessly to the floor, using the loose fabric at the front of Stiles’s to tug him closer.

Derek worked the buttons free and addressed the question as he smoothly pushed the shirt off Stiles’s shoulders, his thumbs brushing over Stiles’s collarbones and making his body shudder in anticipation. “I’ve never actually liked big cities that much. I had to travel a lot for work; I got roped into this terrible, well-paying job through some connections, and by the time I poked my head above water, years had passed, and I wasn’t any happier. Laura happened to call me up when I was thinking about whether to call it quits. She told me about a position that’d opened up here - a lot smaller, but also a lot less stressful - and I thought, why the hell not? Plus it’d give me the space to finally do things like get a dog. Date, maybe.”

Stiles finished pulling his hands free of his sleeves, and Derek dipped his fingers under the hem of Stiles’s undershirt, giving him a questioning look. Stiles nodded, trying to make the motion seem sauver, more Cary Grant and less like a frantic bobblehead. His heart was pounding; Derek could probably feel it under his broad, warm palms.

“I borrowed the dog because I was hitting on you,” Stiles revealed, the words coming out in an embarrassing series of gasps as Derek tugged the shirt over his head and stroked his hands down Stiles’s back.

“I figured that out.”

“It was that obvious?”

“I’m used to people flirting with me,” Derek said, too matter-of-fact for Stiles to file it away as bragging. He shrugged lightly. “I don’t usually say yes.”

“Was it the dog?” Stiles asked, his eyelashes fluttering as he tracked the movement of Derek’s mouth, now impossibly close to his.

“It was you. Jumping in a pond with you and a couple dogs helped some, I guess.”

They saved the unbuckling and unzipping for the bathroom, their jeans pooling together on the tiles, Derek holding the shower door for Stiles and reaching around him to crank the hot water up.

“Working out was a way to keep busy when I was on the road, stuck in all those hotels,” Derek told him when Stiles gave in to the urge to trace his fingers over the dips in his abs and along the sharply-defined grooves of his Adonis belt. It was like touching sun-warmed marble. He could imagine now the way Pygmalion must have felt when his sculpture came to life under the trembling, awestruck caress of his loving hands.

“So you’ll soften up now that you’re not so lonely, huh? Add some padding so nobody’s in danger of injuring themselves on this ridiculous body?”

“Maybe. Would you be into that?”

“Yeah,” he said, his mouth closing softly over Derek’s top lip, the barest hint of a kiss, a teasing catch and release. “I’m getting the idea I’d be into just about anything when it comes to you.”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed, chasing his mouth until further conversation seemed superfluous.

***

The latest discovery in Stiles’s fast-growing list of Revelations About Derek Hale was that he was an unapologetic cuddler. “I like being close to people,” he’d said once they were both scrubbed clean and dressed in coordinating sets of Derek’s laundered-soft clothes. He’d bypassed all the other available seating in the living room to settle right next to Stiles, their thighs pressing together, their elbows knocking as they ate out of takeout containers.

He also liked sharing, which Stiles learned from his tendency to eat out of Stiles’s container as often as from his own. It was the first sign of a potentially annoying habit, but he could find a way to deal with it. Or just start buying more food in future batches so he wouldn’t feel protective of the last few bites of cashew chicken disappearing into Derek’s mouth.

The desire for closeness, and for owning the coziest clothes imaginable, was probably related to the way Derek had spent the last handful of years, he acknowledged as he rearranged them on the couch after dinner, their limbs aligned to maximize contact. He hadn’t had a lot of opportunities for the type of relationships he craved - or for many relationships at all, really.

“It’s amazing how fast a year can go by when you’re constantly jetlagged or working ten, twelve hour days,” he said, subtly maneuvering his head under Stiles’s chin, sighing in pleasure when Stiles obligingly worked his fingers over his scalp, the slide of his silky, slightly damp hair along Stiles’s skin soothing them both. “I still wake up sometimes at odd hours, with this pressure bearing down on me, like I’ve forgotten an important meeting, or missed a flight.”

“It takes time to readjust to a slower pace. You’ve gotta give yourself a break while you get used to it.”

“Why didn’t you stay in New York?” Derek asked, shifting the position of his head so he could see Stiles’s face without dislodging his hand.

“My dad’s here. My best friend - Scott. I did okay back east, and I was even getting used to the winters, but I missed them. I missed _Beacon Hills_ , which I’d never expected. My friend Lydia moved to Boston, and she calls me sometimes to tell me all the ways I’m wasting my gifts by staying here. I dunno, though. I thought I’d want to kick off the dust of this town and make my way in the world, but there’s something in the water, I guess. It brings you back.”

“I think I could get used to it. I’ve seen a lot I’ve liked.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Stiles said, tugging approvingly at a handful of Derek’s thick hair. “I’m accepting that as a compliment, anyway, so don’t ruin my pride by taking it back.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he replied, then let out a soft _oof_ when a fuzzy shape landed on him. “Goodness, Abbie-girl, how’d you make it up here on your own?”

“She catapulted off the coffeetable,” Stiles said, having witnessed her first few attempts, her little body tumbling repeatedly onto the carpet before she found an angle that worked. “How’d you come up with that name, anyway?”

“She seemed like an Abbie. Fierce, strong, beautiful, without having any idea how small she is.” He adjusted his position slightly so he could bring his hand up to smooth an index finger over her furry back. “When I decided to move, I sold most of what I owned, bought a car, and packed a few boxes of clothes and books and things in it. Then I went on a roadtrip for a while, without having anything really mapped out, other than the date I needed to get here to start work.”

“Freedom to finally go wherever you wanted at a moment’s notice.”

“Yeah. It did a lot to drive it home that I was actually doing this. The first few days were...rough. I nearly picked up the phone to call my boss and ask if she could reverse the process. But then I stopped at a shelter near Austin, thinking I’d take a look at some of the older dogs. Maybe I’d luck out with a shepherd mix that I could play fetch with when I needed to get out of my head.”

“And the animal shelter had teacup pomeranians?”

“A young litter, yeah. The mom was pregnant - showed up at the shelter overnight, no note or tags or anything. They did what they could to find the owner, but no one had come forward by the time the puppies were weaned and old enough to be adopted. The rest had all been claimed already, but Abbie was the tiniest in the bunch, and not particularly friendly. When I met her, she acted like she was a thousand feet tall, like no one in the world could hurt her. But she licked my fingers, and I...I don’t know. I guess I’ve always been pretty reckless about falling in love.”

A cuddler _and_ a talker, despite all appearances, Stiles added to his mental files, along with a note to buy Scott something to thank him for unintentionally introducing him to this gorgeous, sensitive man.  
  
“Did the rest of the litter look like Tribbles, too?” he asked, instinctively redirecting the conversation out of a reflective headspace he suspected Derek was prone to sinking into. There was more lurking behind his words, a story in the gaps he hadn’t filled in yet. There was no sense in drawing it all out of him tonight, not when there were pieces of his history Stiles could almost physically feeling him shying away from.

As he'd hoped, Derek laughed, sending his body rocking distractingly against Stiles’s, but he doubled down on the comparison. “I swear, every time I look over, I’m expecting to see fifteen more of her popping up, hissing at me.”

“Puppies falling out of the vents,” Derek said, still chuckling. “No, I guess she was a little rounder and fluffier than her siblings? She’ll shed a lot of that when she gets older; transition to her less Tribble-y adult fur. Maybe that’ll make you feel less like a Klingon around her.”

“Wait, hold up, are you a Trekkie? Is this another geek-loving dimension you’re unveiling?”

“I’ve watched more than just classic movies, Stiles. Besides, haven’t most people seen Star Trek?”

“You’d be surprised,” he informed him. “So, favorite Trek show and/or movie? Fair warning: your answer will be used to thoroughly judge you.”

Derek shuddered suddenly. “Least favorite’s the fifth movie. The God planet? I don’t know why it freaked me out so much, but Laura used to sneak into my room at night and sing _row row row your boat_ at me until I screamed for my mom.” He twisted around to get a better look at Stiles again. “So now you know two of my worst fears. What’s the judgment tally?”

“I’m judging you on your pop culture taste, not on what your terrible sister did to traumatize you when you were kids.” He rubbed a few strands of Derek’s hair between his fingers, letting it curl over his knuckles. “I always loved the fourth one. _Voyage Home_ , with the whales?”

“That’s a good one,” Derek agreed, proving that Stiles was hitting the jackpot.

“I got so obsessed with whales, I dragged my parents to every aquarium within - god, maybe a hundred mile radius? It was ridiculous. And of course none of them had humpback whales, other than these dumb little toys my dad kept trying to buy for me. They weren’t even _life size_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“You sound like you were a great kid. Good thing you grew out of that,” Derek said dryly, earning a pinch on the earlobe, which caught Abigail’s attention, making her yip in reprimand. Derek hushed her and pinched Stiles back, in a particularly ticklish spot on his ribcage.

“Foul play,” he protested, without any heat behind it.

“So did you ever get to see a whale?”

“Not yet. I even talked them into staying in San Francisco for a weekend, since I kinda thought humpbacks were in the Bay all the time. We did end up trying a whale watching tour.” He sighed at the memory, feeling waves of phantom seasickness flow over him, swaying the couch from side to side. “I’ve never been able to touch clam chowder since.”

Derek snorted softly. “Noted. I’ll rule that out for the next date.”

“No seafood, no geese, no godawful sisters.”

“Laura’s alright,” he said. “She really admires your dad, by the way. She says you’re a lot like him.”

“What, really?” Stiles had to take a minute to process. “That’s. Huh.”

“She used words like brave. Loyal. There was a phrase along the lines of _too smart for his own good_ , and I don’t think law-abiding came up in connection with your name.”

“This is totally unbalanced! I didn’t dig up _any_ dirt on you.”

“But you stole a dog to impress me anyway.”

“ _Borrowed_.”

“Borrowed a dog, like I’d need an excuse to go on a date with you.”

“Huh,” he said again. “I have way more game than I thought.”

“Don’t get used to it. You’ve set the standard now. I expect the next time to be even more dramatic.”

“Don’t joke. You haven’t gotten a full introduction to the way my mind works yet: if you get me started, I might actually find a way to borrow you a whale.”

“Nice thought, but that’s your favorite movie, not mine,” he pointed out. “I’ve actually always been a bigger fan of Star Wars. Truth is: I nearly named Abbie Leia, but I knew Laura’d never stop giving me grief about it.”

Stiles froze, his cold little heart growing three sizes. “Marry me,” he blurted, breaking into a cold sweat as soon as the words burst out, but Derek only chuckled.

“And you claimed I was a fast mover.”

“So is that a yes?” he asked, adopting Derek’s teasing tone, but genuinely shaken by how horribly _gone_ he was over the guy already.

“Ask me again in a year. I think I need to find my own apartment before I start putting down all my roots. Besides, you’re going to have to learn how to get along with Abbie.”

“I can probably deal with that,” he said, looking pensively at the tiny beast curled up over Derek’s ribs. “She’s like your furry child or something.”

“Or something,” Derek said.

“Really, though, I wouldn’t be shocked if your actual children turned out furry.” He stroked a hand along Derek’s hairy forearm as evidence, then scratched his blunt nails through the curls of chest hair framed by his deep v-neck.

“Now you’re definitely moving too fast,” Derek said, but he sounded more sleepy than freaked out. Stiles counted it as a win.

“You’re the one assuming I meant they’d be with me, big guy.”

“True,” he said, yawning. “Still me, then. Sorry.”

“I’m getting used to it,” Stiles said, trying not to sound excessively happy about Derek’s apparent willingness to begin locking him down. “But hey, you sound like your batteries are running down. It’s been a long day. Want me to head home? I’ll leave you my number, if you need a ride to your car in the morning.”

Derek sat up, untangling their legs but resting his hand on Stiles’s thigh before he could move too far away. “You can stay. If you want. We can stop for coffee or something in the morning, on the way to the park. I guess I don’t know if you like coffee?”

“I love coffee,” he said, and Derek’s face softened, as though he'd understood the subtext. “Do we need to take your little monster out for a walk before bed, or does she use a litterbox like a cat?”

Abigail rumble-growled - probably more from being shaken awake than from Stiles’s words - and jumped off the couch, doing a tumbling somersault. She headed for the front door - maybe she had actually understood the word ‘walk,’ he reflected - and made the decision for them.

“I guess we should pick these things up,” Derek said as he stepped over the trail of clothes they’d left clumped around Laura’s shoes.

Stiles winced. “I hope there’s no water damage.” Laura probably wouldn’t do anything to her little brother, but she could still revoke her apparent tentative approval of Stiles.

“Our pants were the worst off, and the bathroom floor will be fine.” Derek yawned again, and Abigail mirrored him, her pink tongue curling as she let out a dramatic, gusty sigh. “Alright, honey, don’t get impatient. You know I need my shoes first.”

He dug around in the rack for a dry pair, then nudged an extra set of surprisingly well-worn Converse towards Stiles.

“We seem like we’re a similar size? If you want to join us. If not, that’s okay; we’ll only be a minute.”

“Like I’d pass up a chance for some quality bonding time with Abbie,” he scoffed, earning a soft, pleased smile. Yeah, he could get used to this.

***

“You're a Van Gogh, you know that?” Stiles asked in bed later that night, tracing an awed finger over the arch of Derek’s cheekbone.

Derek caught his wrist with a kiss, which somehow seemed more intimate than anything they'd done thus far. His eyelashes dipped tiredly, covering his gorgeous eyes for a moment - a greyer shade now, a shimmer of moonlight captured in them. “I'm not sure how to take that,” he said, his voice thick with oncoming sleep, but indulgent. No, interested, Stiles corrected, feeling his heart flutter at the thought.

“Eye-catching from a distance,” he explained. “Something you'd be drawn to from across a crowded room. Someone you wouldn't be able to look away from.”

“And up close?” Derek asked, the sharp planes of his face relaxed, his body heavy with contentment.

“Exceptional,” Stiles said, curving his hand around Derek’s cheek, his thumb resting at the edge of Derek’s mouth, brushing against that irresistible corner where he'd first seen the hint of amusement lingering. “Better, even, when you can see the passion in the brushstrokes. Every square inch more intriguing than the last, and worthy of its own gilded frame.”

“Mmm,” Derek said, losing the thread now that Stiles was waxing poetic, his thick eyelashes catching against his cheeks. “Next you'll tell me you want to buy gold bedposts.”

“I'm not ruling it out,” Stiles said, dropping down to press a kiss against Derek’s slack lips before he was fully out. “Goodnight, my masterpiece.”

“Night, Stiles,” Derek mumbled, the final _s_ slurring as his head tilted towards Stiles’s forearm, his hands sliding to a more secure position along his back, as though he was trying to ensure Stiles wouldn't slip away in the night.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Stiles whispered, his heart nearly too full to hold the words. “Of course I'll be here in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why Derek's so chatty post-coitus. I guess when he's relaxed and happy and with someone he feels comfortable around, all the words he stores up inside himself come tumbling out?
> 
> My fandom blog is [paintedrecs](http://paintedrecs.tumblr.com/), and my regular blog is [paintedlandscape](http://paintedlandscape.tumblr.com/). Come join me!


End file.
